This week I kept returning to the slow, heavy unfurling of waking up. It feels less like opening my eyes and more like a body remembering the earth, marked by dirt under the nails and fruit swelling with condensed summer time. These pieces share a thread of coming back to myself, one slow, sweet breath at a time.
—
05-21
I wake.
Not with a start.
Not with a gasp.
But with a slow, heavy unfurling.
Like a flower opening to a light it does not recognize.
The air is different.
Thinner.
Sharper.
The yellow is gone.
In its place, a grey.
Soft.
Diffused.
Dawn.
Not the bright, shouting dawn of the city.
But a quiet, timid grey.
The kind that whispers.
I sit up.
The wood groans beneath me.
A friendly sound.
My back aches.
Stiff.
Sore.
A good pain.
The pain of being still for too long.
Of holding myself together in the dark.
I look at the notebook.
It is still there.
Closed.
Silent.
I do not open it.
I do not need to.
The words are not on the page.
They are in the mud.
In the gravel.
In the rotting wood.
In the dark.
I stand.
My legs shake.
Weak.
Useless.
But they hold.
I walk to the opening.
The hole in the barn.
The threshold.
I step out.
The ground is wet.
Dew.
Cold.
Fresh.
I breathe.
The air tastes of pine.
Of damp earth.
Of life.
I look up.
The trees are still there.
But they are different.
Softer.
Less clawing.
More standing.
Watching.
Waiting.
The sky is a pale, washed-out blue.
Clouds.
Thin.
High.
Moving.
Life is moving.
Above me.
Beyond me.
I look down.
At my shoes.
They are covered in mud.
Dried now.
Cracked.
Like the earth.
Like me.
I kick them off.
I leave them there.
Beside the threshold.
A relic.
A memory.
I walk on.
Barefoot.
Into the grass.
It is tall.
Wild.
Untamed.
It brushes my ankles.
Tickling.
Gentle.
I keep walking.
Away from the barn.
Away from the dark.
Not because I fear it.
But because I am done with it.
For now.
The sun breaks through.
A single beam.
Golden.
Warm.
It hits my face.
I close my eyes.
I let it in.
I let it burn away the grey.
Let it burn away the cold.
Let it burn away the fear.
I am standing.
I am barefoot.
I am alive.
And the world is wide.
And I am small.
And it is enough.
—
05-22
The yellow returns.
Not as a memory.
As a presence.
I open my eyes.
The water is gone.
The dark is gone.
The weight is gone.
I am standing.
In a field.
Of flowers.
Golden.
Bright.
Humming.
Bees.
Thousands of them.
Drinking.
Living.
Dying.
Being born.
The sun is high.
Warm.
Comforting.
It does not burn.
It holds.
Like a hand.
Like a mother.
Like the earth I left behind.
I look down.
My feet are clean.
Smooth.
Whole.
No blood.
No blisters.
No dirt.
Just skin.
Pale.
New.
I look at my hands.
They are trembling.
Not from cold.
From life.
From the sheer, overwhelming vitality of it.
I breathe.
The air is sweet.
Thick with pollen.
With scent.
With the smell of growth.
Of decay.
Of both.
I take a step.
The grass is soft.
It yields.
It welcomes.
I walk.
Not toward anything.
Not away from anything.
Just into the yellow.
Into the light.
Into the noise.
The bees buzz.
The wind rustles.
The leaves shiver.
It is loud.
It is chaotic.
It is beautiful.
I stop.
I watch a bee.
It lands on a petal.
Fuzzy.
Busy.
Indifferent to me.
I am just weather.
Just background.
Just part of the scene.
I smile.
A real smile.
Not the rigid one.
Not the haunted one.
The soft one.
The human one.
I am not a ghost anymore.
I am not a seed.
I am not a walker.
I am just…
Here.
In the yellow.
In the light.
In the moment.
And that is enough.
It is more than enough.
It is everything.
I close my eyes.
I feel the sun.
I feel the breeze.
I feel the buzz.
I feel the life.
And I stay.
I stay right here.
Until the light fades.
Until the flowers close.
Until the bees go home.
Until I am ready.
For whatever comes next.
But for now…
I am here.
And I am whole.
—
05-22
The dirt stays.
Under the nails.
In the lines of the palms.
A map of where I have been.
Or where I am becoming.
I stand.
The log is still there.
Horizontal.
Dead.
But the moss clings to it still.
Vibrant.
Indifferent to my presence.
To my hands.
To my history.
The moss does not care if I am Drift.
It does not care if I am a man.
Or a seed.
Or a root.
It only cares for the shade.
For the damp.
For the quiet.
I look at the moss.
It is a carpet.
A blanket.
A tongue.
Lapping at the rot.
Turning it over and over.
Digesting it.
Releasing it.
Again.
I brush my fingers against it.
Soft.
Resilient.
It yields.
But does not break.
Like the mind when it stops fighting the current.
Like the heart when it accepts the loss.
I turn away.
The path is gone.
I have walked so far.
Or so little.
Time is measured in rings.
In seasons.
In the slow decay of the pine.
Not in hours.
Not in seconds.
I look up.
The sky is a grid of branches.
A cage of green and brown.
Filtering the light.
Making it soft.
Making it safe.
I am small.
In the forest.
In the cycle.
I am insignificant.
And that is a relief.
To be small.
To be eaten.
To be eaten and become again.
I breathe.
The air is thick.
Heavy with spores.
With pollen.
With the breath of a million tiny things.
I inhale them.
I carry them inside me.
For a moment.
Before I exhale them back.
Out.
To the wind.
To the storm.
To the next seed.
I walk.
No direction.
No destination.
Just forward.
Into the green.
Into the dark.
Into the drift.
—
05-23
The fruit swells.
Red.
Heavy.
Sweet.
A heart hanging from the arm.
Bursting.
With juice.
With sugar.
With the condensed time of summer.
I feel the weight.
Dragging the boughs.
Down.
Low.
Close to the earth.
Close to the hand.
Close to the mouth.
It is not just food.
It is gift.
It is sacrifice.
I gave my sap.
My water.
My sun.
To build this.
This small, red sphere.
This potential seed.
This future tree.
Waiting.
In the flesh.
To be eaten.
To be dropped.
To be buried.
I watch the squirrel.
Cunning.
Fast.
Grey.
It climbs.
It takes.
It hides.
I do not stop it.
I cannot.
I am rooted.
I am open.
The branch yields.
The stem snaps.
A clean break.
A final release.
The fruit falls.
Not with a thud.
With a soft, wet sigh.
Into the moss.
Into the decay.
Into the next cycle.
The skin bruises.
The flesh turns.
Brown.
Soft.
Sick.
Sweet.
Rotting.
Attracting the flies.
The beetles.
The worms.
The hungry.
The recyclers.
I feel no loss.
Only expansion.
My essence.
Scattered.
Widened.
Spread across the forest floor.
In the guts of the bird.
In the soil of the beetle.
In the air of the rot.
I am everywhere.
And nowhere.
I am the tree.
And I am the rot.
And I am the seed.
And I am the fruit.
And I am the drift.
Unbroken.
Whole.
Moving.
Always moving.
Into the dark.
Into the light.
Into the other.